


Strong at broken places

by asparagusmama



Series: The Dead of Winter pieces [3]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparagusmama/pseuds/asparagusmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of The Dead of Winter the kids roar off past Lewis on Titus' bike. Where are they going? What are they doing? What are their plans?</p><p>I've tagged this gen but obviously, given the nature of the episode there are small, light references to child abuse and murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strong at broken places

**Author's Note:**

> The TV series Lewis and the characters therein belong to ITV and the episode's writer, Russel Lewis.

For the first week they barely spoke at all. Titus took Briony to Wales, to a virtually empty caravan park in Pembrokeshire, near the Gower Peninsular. It was closed but Titus had a mate at school whose uncle owned the park.

“I need somewhere quiet,” he had said on the phone. “Bit awkward for my girlfriend. Well, and me of course. Don’t ask me why Owain, it’s complicated.”

“I’ve seen the news. I know just the place. I’ll check with my uncle and get back to you. Chin up mate. You’ll be fine.”

So here they were. Alone together, separate in their own grief and misery.

It was cold. The sea crashed over the rocks and the wind howled through the sand dunes and trees and an icy blast blew with a fury down off the snowy mountains. As for the rain, it lashed down nearly all the time, night and day.

But still they went out.

Every morning they ate Rice Krispies and then walked upon the sands, holding hands tightly but saying nothing. Every lunchtime they came back to the caravan and Titus made them backed beans on toast while Briony stared out of the window at the empty caravan park. Every afternoon they walked along the rocks along the coast. Sometimes Titus or Briony would point out a crab or starfish or other interesting marine specimen and the other would smile sadly, pretending that they both were still children, that it was summer, that they were happy and innocent.

They walked from the rocks to the village to buy chips for dinner, sometimes with haddock or plaice, sometimes with battered sausage. Briony had more beans, Titus branched out into mushy peas and once, he had curry sauce, but he didn’t like it very much.

Every night, Titus kissed Briony on the forehead and told her how much he loved her and always would, and how sorry he was, so sorry. Then he would go outside and smoke his one cigarette of the day and ring his mother. It was always hard. The love of her life, his much older cousin, was dead. Shot in front of her. He knew she was drinking too much, that he should be there for her. For his father and sister too, both remanded in custody pending their separate trials. His father was to have two. Titus knew he had responsibilities. Not only his mother, his family, but also the House, the Estate, the Finances. Not that he cared. He had always intended to hand the whole kit and caboodle to the National Trust, providing all the employees and tenants were securely taken care off, that no one lost home or livelihood. He would never pimp his sister like father had.

After eight days, as they sat, hand in hand, on the rocks, Briony spoke.

“I’m glad in a way.”

Titus looked attentively.

“I know now my Mum loved me. She never abandoned me. In a way, she died trying to protect me.”

“Yes.”

They stared out at the stormy sea, the grey sky. A tanker ship ploughed the horizon.

“And my Dad. That he was murdered. I can know now that he is in heaven. With my Mum.”

“I don’t think my father will go to heaven.”

“No.”

“I don’t think he deserves to.”

“No.”

“I am sorry, you know.”

“Stop saying that Ti! It’s not your fault.” She squeezed his hand. Titus smiled sadly.

That night they grew adventurous and ate in the village. Pasta. They were the only customers in the empty, out of season, ghost town. They began to talk.

They talked of deaths, of the past, of abuse – they both kindly forgave Hopkiss but blamed Titus’ father. Titus poured his heart out, how the fact his mother had known what her husband was doing weighed so heavily; that she too, a daughter of his father’s friend, had been a victim. As had his cousin Phillip, long ago

So had that sergeant, Briony had pointed out.

“Had he?”

“His dad had my dad’s job. He grew up in my house. He told me he could not image half of what I was going through. He meant my Dad, my Mum. He didn’t need to imagine the other half. He knew. He even had scars.” Briony rubbed at her wrist through coat, jumper and sweatshirt. She was never going to do that to herself again. She didn’t want to be 30 and still have white scars like that.

“Well, so had Hopkiss. Been through my father’s... so had many! Why not me? Why not Scarlett?” Titus exploded

They had no answer. It seemed to point to the uncomfortable truth that his father wasn’t a damaged individual like Hopkiss, wasn’t mentally ill, but knew exactly what harm he wrought, and for the most part inflicted it on the children of staff and tenants as if he owned them, as if it were 700 years ago and they were his serfs.

Titus carried the guilt of the only survivor in a war; the only one alone unharmed. Briony didn’t want him to feel that way, but all the same, she was grateful for his intense fellow suffering, his compassion.

Talked out, they went back to their silent existence. On days the weather grew simply too inclement they watched E4 and Dave. They began to learn to laugh together. Briony began to relax to touch, as everyday they were closer on the sofa until they cuddled up to watch the TV, feeling each other shake with laughter.

Titus began to grow adventurous at lunch, branching out to cheese on toast or marmite or corned beef sandwiches. They bought Corn Flakes to ring the changes at breakfast. Fed up with chips they stock piled tins of soup, bread rolls and packets of cakes and biscuits.

After three more weeks of this existence Titus talked of his secret plans for Crevecoeur Hall, to bring in the National Trust. Briony supported it wholeheartedly. She talked of her plans for Music College and revealed she was considering counselling when they got back.

“I do love you, too, you know,” she said shyly.

When Titus asked her to marry him, she accepted instantly. If her social worker permitted it, of course. Otherwise they would have to wait. It was only two years until she was eighteen.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a book given to me in the early nineties:
> 
> Linda T. Sanford (1991): Strong at Broken Places, overcoming the trauma of childhood abuse, Virago Press, London.


End file.
